by Reggie Bender (@granolabrat)
It’s a little puzzling to think that Yes and No, Anna McClellan’s last effort, came out only two years ago. The easy to love, quick to disarm record seemed to vivify everyone it touched, tickling a lyrical rawness that today’s indie rock often trades for a more calculated candor. In 2020, McClellan invites us back into her world, cool removal thrown to the wind once again. Welcome to I Saw First Light, where the heat has broken and the air has thinned. McClellan and friends kick around touching piano confessionals, capturing two somewhat contrasting ideas: one’s smallness in the world, and one’s largeness in the minutiae of daily life.
The record begins with McClellan at the helm. She yields a purposefully more relaxed sound, the spunk of community theater. The informality directly combats the constant pressure to suppress oneself, as seems to be a frequent concern on First Light. On “No Wind,” McClellan laments over a campfire instrumentation that “I can’t see why I don’t trust myself / Really need to stop thinking my emotions are something to quell.” This falls in step with McClellan’s classic stream of consciousness, working out love and frustration and vulnerability. At its peak, the record offers salient pieces of honesty. With a moment of keen self analysis in “Con S Sewer,” she questions her disconnect. “What is it about me that I don’t understand?” In its milder moments, First Light still boasts relatable observations of holding back when there isn’t much rhyme or reason to. Even the playful instrumentations on songs like “Raisin” or the end of “Trying Too Hard” seem to represent a new freedom, a choice to strive towards an attitude of “let's just see what happens.”
The real substance of the record, however, mostly comes in smaller pangs. Rather than fantasize about large-scale impact, McClellan humbles herself against the immensity of her surroundings. Instead, she begs to hold weight in day to day interactions and personal relationships. Pondering her place in the world only amplifies her desire for connection, her motivation to dive all in. With the opening of “To Prove,” McClellan jabs against men who aren’t interested in anything other than hearing themselves talk, asking why her experiences aren’t of much importance when there isn’t as much space between them as it may seem. Aloofness is frowned upon, a dirty habit impossible to quit. Ultimately her howling for reciprocation on songs like “Desperate” or “Feel You” is a form of protest against it.
First Light is not a departure but is mid-flight, aware we’re tiny specks hurtling towards arrival. There isn’t much to control other than one’s own intentionality. Will I ask for a drink, or sleep through the flight? Will I talk to the stranger sitting next to me? It reminds us that reaching out is an act of rebellion. McClellan rejects our self inflicted American sensibility of emotional restraint, and why not? Sometimes the tension of opening up is just as delicious as it is to learn what’s inside. The fallout we’ll make sense of later.